Sometimes and Always
by josiris
Summary: Sam reflects on her relationship with Jack


Author: Jo'siris

Rating: M

Disclaimer: The characters belong to MGM.

Pairing Sam/Jack

Sometimes, it's the softest, sweetest of moments. His hot, sweat-soaked body pressing you into the mattress, you don't feel his weight, you welcome it. He barely moves, no thrusting, no hurry, just his pelvis grinding excruciatingly slowly. He's hot and solid inside, and you squeeze your inner muscles, giving him the most intimate of hugs.

He tongues your nipple and you contract just a little bit tighter, a little bit longer, earning you another concentric gyration of his hips. You know, when he looks up into your eyes, that he doesn't understand how this almost non-movement can bring you to orgasm.

If you weren't currently going out of your mind, praying for that last big push, that deep pressurised rotation of his pelvis, you'd tell him that it's all about friction, how rubbing two things together causes sparks. He is your friction and he is about to spark you into oblivion, coming at the mere thought that as soon as you utter that final 'O' and he tries and fails to form a coherent sentence, he will fill you with his seed, and that alone fills you with ecstasy.

Sometimes, you spend your night cuddled up on the couch, watching something and nothing on the TV. He'll say he doesn't like what you like; you'll say the same. It's habit. He's baiting you, wanting you to say you really want to watch something, so he can be the gracious one and back down. You're so not biting, you never do. He could switch it off and you know you'd both still sit there. Together.

Your Head rests on his chest, your hand over his heart...your heart. He gave it to you a long time ago, with a silent plea never to rip it out. His fingers play absentmindedly with your hair, pulling strands through finger and thumb. You're sure he doesn't even know he's doing it. Occasionally he turns and kisses your forehead. You don't move, you just clutch a little tighter to the fabric of his shirt and snuggle in.

You fall asleep in the same position you have been in all night. You both wake simultaneously; you've always wondered how you do that. Both of you are stiff and sore. He hauls you to your feet and leads you to the bedroom, telling you he is too old for this 'falling on the couch thing' and you laugh and tell him you both are.

Sometimes he's rough, hard and needy. Taking you when you least expect it, over any available surface. If your kitchen counter could talk...He hoists your skirt or rips down your jeans; it's a barrier to him, and he needs to feel you. He barely gives you time to adjust before he is inside you, thrusting wildly, hot and solid, grunting and groaning behind you, digging his nails into your hips, pulling you flush against him to give deeper leverage.

With any other man you would be appalled. Not him. You know this is not about sex. This is about his need to be with you, to be one with you. He comes all too soon; much sooner than you could be expected to.

He withdraws, turns you to him, his face ashamed. He apologises, says he'll make it up to you. He doesn't need to apologise; you understand, and it's nice, thrilling, to be wanted and needed like that. It's not like you haven't done the same to him. He just doesn't see it that way.

He carries you to your bed and with his tongue makes you scream for everything holy, even though you're not a religious person. Afterwards he kisses you, soft, open-mouthed kisses; lets you taste yourself on his lips. Then he holds you. For however long it takes to drive whatever demon was chasing him from his brain.

Sometimes you are amazed by the fact that you know when he enters a room. You can't hear him, can't see him, but the hairs on the back of your neck bristle and your stomach flips. He has told you many times over the years that it is your 'sick' sense. You never correct his misuse of words. You are pretty sure most of the time he does it on purpose. He has been in the gym in the basement. He says it's because he wants to keep the body of Adonis, you tell him he has to steal it first in order to keep it. He is in good physical shape: strong, toned body, which - although it bears many scars of battle - is still very admirable to far too many of the base's women, and quite a few the men too, from what you hear.

It's lunchtime and it's your turn to cook, if salad can be called cooking, which you're pretty sure it can. You sense his approach but don't turn around. The backs of his fingers stroke up and down the lengths of your arms, making you shiver. He kisses your cheek and rests his chin on your shoulder. You know he is about to make a comment about burning the salad, so you hold up the knife you are chopping the tomatoes with as a warning.

He is hot and sweaty; you can feel the heat emanating from his body and suffusing into yours, and you know that if you arch back a little and press your butt against his groin you will find him aroused. He won't rub against you; he wants you to give in to him. If you didn't know better you would say he is getting as arrogant as a Goa'uld. You won't arch and you won't rub against him. But it's so tempting when he is whispering things in your ear that should make you blush and would if you didn't know firsthand that he is capable of carrying out each and every delicious threat to send you into orgasmic heaven.

You will not give in, you do have willpower, and it's a complete lie to say that you don't. You will not turn around, drop to your knees, and have 'dessert' before dinner. You were always told never to eat between meals! But you want to, and he knows it.

Instead you send him off for a shower-alone, telling him lunch will be ready in ten. When he returns, his face flushed after his hot shower and wearing a crisp white T-shirt that accentuates his tan, he smiles gently and sits to eat his food. Little knowing that when the last morsel has passed his lips you are so going to jump him. After all you had seven years of willpower, and it's highly overrated.

Always, you are thankful for the day that you realised advancement in the Air Force didn't mean as much to you as it once did. Too many near death experiences – his, not yours - made you finally see that 'tomorrow' may never come, and you have to live for today.

Daniel told you that you had finally woken up and smelled the coffee. Of course if it was his coffee you should have smelt it years ago! You are still the foremost expert on the Stargate. You still go on missions, amazingly with SG1 for the most part. You now head your own team of scientists. Geeks, he calls them. Eggheads. You know he doesn't hate scientists quite so much anymore; he just has to keep up his big bad Colonel image.

You are happier than you ever dared dream you could be. You swapped Major for Doctor. Single-white-female for Wife and if you had to say the most remarkable, amazing, once in a lifetime thing that you have ever seen, it would no longer be the first time you saw the Stargate activate, it would be the look of utter love and devotion in Jack O'Neill's eyes when he looked at you and said 'I do'.


End file.
